EVERYTHING CARRIES ME TO YOU
by HurryUpSlowly
Summary: Drabbles etc on a variety of characters and set at different points in the show. Chapters 5 and 6 now up. Spoiler-free.
1. What I See

**Author's Note:** _I just love drabbles and one-shots – I think that they're basically an art form. And what better to indulge in a variety of moods, many of which can't be sustained in a multi-chapter fic (at least not coherently)? Not to speak about the fact that I need to drag myself out of a mild case of writer's block on How I Measure My Time._

_So... I give you this – a series of drabbles on a variety of characters on _Bones_. Make what you wish of them – but I hope you like them._

**Timeline:** Season 4.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

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**What I See**

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Pleasure – forgotten so much sooner than pain.

So many cups of coffee, a million words and laughter flying between them, heads tilting in unison, everything that feels good.

But when she looks at the man before her, all she sees is pain (blood trickling between her fingers, now he sleeps without end).

_I will not see this!_ something inside her cries out – loud – louder – so loud that this is all she can hear for days and weeks and months.

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Pleasure – so much more difficult to forget than pain.

Everything between them, closeness and arguments and laughter and coffee, so much coffee.

But when he looks at the woman before him, all he sees is silence (and no, she won't be attending his next funeral).

_I will not see this!_ something inside him says – loud – louder, for days and weeks and months.

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_Well, that's some of the angst taken care of. I'll continue with these at somewhat irregular intervals, that is, when the inspiration condescends to hit._

_In the meantime, I should get back to my other story, right?_

_Please review and tell me what you think!_


	2. Survival

**A/N:** _I forgot to say that the first drabble was inspired by Federico Garc__í__a Lorca's _Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías. _Make what you wish of it, but I know you'll like the poem (unless you already know it, of course)._

**Setting: **_Any time in the series._

**Disclaimer:** _The usual. Not mine._ _From now on, please the disclaimer is applicable to the whole collection of drabbles._

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**Survival**

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She wants Kathy and Andy to be free. And not just in a sexually-liberated multiple-orgasm role-playing way.

She has always disliked the phrase "emotional baggage". She wants to travel light, unencumbered by the weight of the past. She takes pride in being able to adapt to any environment, even to the most unwelcoming or unfamiliar.

But memories can hold you hostage. She knows that.

So she makes sure that Kathy and Andy don't.

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_One more coming up tonight. Please read and review!_


	3. Time

**A/N**_: This is the second drabble I'm posting tonight (just in case you've missed the previous one)._

**Timeline:**_ after season 3._

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**Time**

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Time is unredeemable. She fights it hard, trying to fit in as many things as possible in one day, in one week.

Time is dangerous too, her fifteen-year-old self reminds her occasionally. When her parents disappeared, it would have been so easy to give in, to sink into a semi-catatonic state and just let everything slip by effortlessly, until she somehow found herself an old-aged woman with nothing to leave behind.

She didn't. Instead, she fights time – not like other women do, with face creams and plastic surgery, but with her intellect and her heart.

One day, it may not be enough. One day, she will feel old. Until then, she continues to brave the tide.

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_That's it for tonight – back to How I Measure My Time. I know I still owe so many people a reply to their very kind reviews, and I'm off to do that now._

_In the meantime, thanks for reading and please review!_


	4. Alternate Realities

**A/N: This is for ama_blue, whose review about the drabble on Kathy and Andy sparked some lateral thinking. Spoilers for Pain in the Heart. Sort of.**

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**Alternate Realities**

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"Did you ever think about writing other kinds of fiction? Don't get me wrong, Bones – you're good, better than good. Bestselling author and everything," he says one evening, smiling. "I was just wondering if you ever wanted to... you know, move beyond Kathy and Andy."

They are sitting cross-legged on the floor, a couple of pizza boxes and beers open on the coffee table.

"Write non-mystery fiction, you mean?" she asks, choosing another slice of pizza.

"Yeah."

"I already did."

_I wrote it for you_, she thinks, but she does not say it out loud. She'd buried the story in a remote corner of her computer afterwards, and never looked back. She does not regret writing it. It was, after all, a very effective therapeutic exercise.

"Maybe you can read it," she adds. "Someday."

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_Not sure what to think of this, but... well, it sort of had to be written. Please let me know!_


	5. Proud Music of the Storm

**A/N:** _I have a few new drabbles for you, all of which were written in response to a series of prompts in __**Bertie's**_** awesome **_**Bones Comment Fic Meme.**_

_For this one, lizook12's prompt was __**Booth/Brennan - grass.**_

_This first drabble is going to be a little unusual – I thought I'd just mention that._

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**Proud Music of the Storm**

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Now the great organ sounds, and she can hear it. She can really hear it, the wide gothic arches of the church echoing every note. Booth shifts next to her, a concerned look on his face, as if he expects her to make one of her trademark snarky comments about religion. She does not. He settles back into his seat.

Johann Sebastian Bach, she recites to herself, Johann Sebastian Bach.

The name is familiar. It is human. It belongs to someone long dead.

The dead cannot speak, she tells herself. When they do speak – and to her, they do sometimes – they speak of bones and traumas and uncompleted lives. Their voices are not God's thunder. Their voices cannot be God's thunder.

She feels as if she has come here to sift through the mundane – religious rituals, pomp and circumstance – and has ended up with a handful of the transcendental instead.

When the choir joins in, she gets up and runs out, stopping only when she is at a safe distance, the music coming out of the church mixing with the soothing everyday sounds of the city.

Booth finds her pacing the grass a few minutes later.

"What are you doing to me? Why did you bring me here?" she says to him, angry (distraught? she wonders).

"What?"

"How can someone do this? How can anyone do this? He's dead, he's been dead for three hundred years!"

Booth looks at her, then towards the church, then back at her.

"I'm a scientist, it's who I am. It's who I want to be," she tells him, her voice a whisper now.

He drapes an arm around her shoulders.

"I know who you are, Bones. I know."

She thinks that yes, now she knows who he is too.

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_Just in case anyone's wondering how grass plays into this, for some strange reason Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass (Proud Music of the Storm, to be specific) sprang to mind, instead of actual grass. So I just let it all go in that direction. Go figure. :)_

_And for the record, I always thought that Brennan's sensitive enough to have a flash of insight on how people experience religion (she does seem to want to connect to something greater, after all, at least recently). It's just that she needs to be caught by surprise._

_Oh well, no idea where this came from. Please let me know what you think!_


	6. Solitude

_**Challenge: **__Bertie's wonderful Bones Comment Fic Meme._

_**Prompt: **__"Brennan (pref. B&B), something dealing with the exhumation of mass graves in post-dictatorships in South America (I've yet to see a fic dealing with this)" by __**shadow_sphinx.**_

_Let's see if we can inject a bit of magical realism into it then. It's probably a little off-prompt, but I had an irresistible urge to write it. :)_

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**Solitude**

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Many years later, as she faced Booth across the table in the diner, Dr Temperance Brennan was to remember that distant afternoon when an unknown man threw her in a cell in a remote Latin American country.

She knows death. But during those days she knew fear as well – its slightly metallic taste, the rush of adrenaline every time the cell door opened.

I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. The mantra repeated over and over in the dark.

She never gave a name to the thirteen-year-old girl. So when she sees her in dreams sometimes, she calls her Remedios.

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_I seem incapable of writing fluffy stuff at the moment – never mind, will try harder. :) And I haven't forgotten about How I Measure My Time, I promise._

_In the meantime – please read and review!_


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